If a sentry broke an ankle one hundred yards from the field hospital, he would freeze to death.

Mr. Nicholas Chaikovsky held frequent meetings to forge the new constitution, which never seemed to be ratified. The Slavo-British Legion had been disbanded, except for a force just large enough to protect Mr. Nicholas Chaikovsky, who had trouble going outside without someone throwing a rock at his hat. It was evident that democracy had bloomed as it always did when forcibly planted, in a kakistocracy of the worst possible men.

One day, a dozen films arrived at Ironside’s offices: Chaplins, a Pick-ford or two, a melodrama with Mary Miles Minter, a May Allison comedy, the first six episodes of The Exploits of Elaine, and a final reel marked “Officers Eyes Only.” It was a short reel on 9.5 safety film. Ironside stood behind his desk, reading the explanatory text that came with it. He was being sent a print of the only known motion-picture footage of Trotsky. It was a segment spliced from My Official Wife.

Pishkoff stood at Ironside’s office door. “Sir?”

“Pishkoff.”

“General Ironside, sir, your presence is requested at the infirmary.”

“Very well,” Ironside said. They walked to the first floor, where they entered the snowsuit room. The general began to dress quietly while his valet stood at ease, but at a reserve. Ironside put on a sleeveless sweater, felt-lined leather tunic, fleece-lined overcoat, and then a pair of mittens, and another, each with thumb and trigger finger free. He topped off with a balaclava cap of white duck.

Thus prepared, Ironside allowed Pishkoff to open the door to outside. A wind like a punch in the face brought tears to Ironside’s eyes. He blinked carefully, to keep his lashes from freezing together. He waddled next to Pishkoff in the darkness the half verst to the infirmary. Pishkoff’s pace was steady, and his boots made very precise tracks in the snow.

“What do you hear from the people, Pishkoff?”

“Everything is adequate, sir.”

Pishkoff was dressed to regulations, and he now shaved every day. His skin was healthier than it had been in years, and he had lost his paunch, for he seemed to have stopped drinking. Ironside wasn’t sure of this last point, for Pishkoff did not confide in him.

The infirmary was a single-story clapboard building heated by many stoves, its walls several feet thick. Generators hummed just outside to power the bright surgical lights.

Once they were inside, and had stripped off their outermost layers, Ironside let Pishkoff lead him to a cot. A soldier was lying in it, eyes closed.

“What’s his condition?”

“I think you should talk to him, sir.”

Ironside eased into the chair beside the bed, testing the legs, for he didn’t want his weight to collapse them. The scrape against the floor caused the soldier’s eyes to open.

“Good afternoon,” Ironside said. “I’m General Ironside.”

“Sir,” the soldier said.